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'Tis she! the Provence Rose; oh, well Such name beseems her now, The pale and stony dead around Wear not more ghastly brow.

Woe for her search—too soon she finds Her valiant knight laid low; Thou fatal helm, thou hast betrayed His head to the life-blow.

One blasting gaze—one loud wild shriek,— She sinks upon his breast: O Death! thou hast been merciful,— For both, both are at rest.

L. E. L.